


something else altogether

by shimizu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (I'm sorry please don't hate me), Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, also there are coffee shops and sweaters, features dadchi and pretty setter squad, hanamaki and mattsun are giant memes, it's pretty much all out war between physics and bio majors, science puns, typical iwaoi pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5327198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimizu/pseuds/shimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Iwaizumi Hajime develops a Fail-Safe System™ for surviving university by dividing his focus between the following activities:</p><p>1) schoolwork.<br/>2) hockey practice.<br/>3) ignoring Oikawa Tooru.</p><p>(Or, the figure skating/hockey AU literally no one asked for)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. incipient

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by and dedicated to [@commandereyebrows](http://commandereyebrows.tumblr.com/) and their wonderful art!

**incipient** (adjective)

  1. in an initial stage; beginning to happen or develop.

  2. when Iwaizumi Hajime meets Oikawa Tooru.




 

* * *

  

_Closed for renovation 11/01 - 4/15._

 

Iwaizumi Hajime glares at the flimsy paper sign taped to the university rink’s door and wonders why no one bothered to tell him about this. Shifting the strap of his sports bag onto one shoulder, he peers cautiously through the window, hoping to spot a teammate or preferably, someone from administration whom he can harass. Unfortunately, the normally bright and cheery lobby is quiet and unlit, the front signin desk abandoned.

Frowning, Hajime blows on his frozen hands and debates whether he should just return to the library with its free coffee and inviting collection of biology notes, or be responsible and suffer through the weather’s apparent vendetta against him. Reluctantly choosing the latter, he pulls out his phone with numb fingers to check if morning practice is canceled. It buzzes in his hand as a new message lights up the screen.

 

**Bokuto Koutarou says:**

hey hey hey do u know the way to the new rink

 

....Bokuto must be joking. The ice hockey team has always used this rink; Hajime’s pretty sure it’s the only one on campus. But when he glances back up at the door, the sign is still attached, haphazardly crooked as if whatever dumbass taped it there was purposely aiming to antagonize him. He sighs, breath dissipating in a puff of mist, and tugs his scratchy woolen scarf further up his face in an attempt to block out the biting autumn wind before responding.

 

**Iwaizumi Hajime:**

New rink????

 

**Bokuto Koutarou:**

lol bro coach told us yestrday at practice

the old ones beign redone i think

i mean it is like 50+ yrs old

**Iwaizumi Hajime:**

I was making up an exam yesterday dumbass

Where are you? I’ll come meet you and we can head over together

Otherwise you’ll probably get lost

**Bokuto Koutarou:**

you wound me bro

im by the dorms

oh and i found us a guide!!!!!! ٩(˘◊˘)۶

 

After a ten-minute trek across campus that sets Hajime shivering despite his heavy coat, he spots Bokuto talking animatedly to some guy outside their redbrick dorm, bouncing in place to keep warm. When he notices Hajime, he grins and waves him over. “Hey! This is my roommate, Kuroo. He’s on the figure skating team, so he knows the way to the rink! And because he’s so awesome he agreed to come with us!”

Hajime looks Kuroo over skeptically. His torn skinny jeans and messy bed hair don’t make him seem like the figure skater type, but since meeting Bokuto (who, despite coming across as childlike and kind of stupid, is the top offensive player on their team), he’s learned not to judge too much by appearances. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he introduces.

Kuroo smirks and raises his half-empty coffee cup. “‘Sup.”

Hajime shifts awkwardly, frost crunching beneath his boots, and forces back a yawn. He really should have just gone to the library; caffeine sounds particularly appetizing right now and Hajime is slightly worried by the realization that he can no longer feel his toes.

“Well… lead the way, I guess?” he finally mumbles, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Bokuto shouldn’t be late to practice again or he’ll get yelled at.”

Ignoring Bokuto’s indignant protests (“It was only one time!” “More like six times.” “You don’t understand, there’s this really pretty boy in my history class right before afternoon practice—”), Kuroo laughs and starts forward across the icy pavement. “Don’t worry, the rink’s only a block away from campus,” he says, grinning at them over his shoulder. “And no need to look so fucking exhausted. 6:30 is nothing, when Kenma and I have a competition I have to drag him out of bed at, like, five.”

“Bro, that’s way too dedicated,” Bokuto exclaims.

“Honestly, we’re probably the chillest ones on the team,” Kuroo snorts, downing a sip of coffee. “There’re a couple guys I know who practically never leave the rink. Thank god Kenma would never let me get that serious.” Kuroo rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, perhaps in an attempt to make it even messier, though Hajime can’t tell the difference.

“So, Iwaizumi,” he says, rocking back on his heels once they reach a street corner. “You’re a first year too, right? What’s your major?”

“Molecular bio; I’m doing pre-med.”

Kuroo hums thoughtfully, non-coffee-occupied hand fiddling with the end of his plaid scarf. The traffic light changes and they trudge across the road, red and gold leaves whipping about them in the wind. “Let’s see… do you know a Sugawara Koushi, by any chance?”

“Um…” Hajime thinks back. “That friendly guy with the grayish hair? I think he’s in my physiology class.”

“Yeah, that’s him! He used to be on my team, actually, but he quit a few weeks in. How’s he doing?”

It’s only a couple more minutes of discussing various mutual acquaintances and swapping professor horror stories (Kuroo claims the business school attracts megalomaniacs like Bokuto to bad hair gel) until they reach the rink. It’s sleek, shiny and modern, with massive windows dappled with frost and a broad concrete staircase leading to several revolving doors. Hajime wonders how the ice will feel, considering how fancy the facilities look.

Kuroo waves them off and strolls towards the coffee shop next door to get another double shot espresso. Hajime and Bokuto follow the signs to the locker room to change, Bokuto fawning over everything from the heated showers to the squeaky-clean tile floor.

“Get used to it,” Hajime grunts, kicking off his boots and tossing them in his sports bag, “we’re probably gonna practice here for the rest of the year; renovations always run longer than scheduled.”

Bokuto shimmies into his jersey and crouches down to fasten his shin pads. “I’m so excited though! This place is _way_ nicer than the school rink, I don’t even mind the walk. And maybe we’ll see the figure skating team!” He suddenly pauses, black and white hair standing straight up in shock. “Wait… I think that pretty guy from my history class mentioned he does figure skating! Iwaizumi! What if he’s here? What should I do? He probably has no idea who I am; should I introduce myself if his team is practicing? But no, Kuroo’s obviously not practicing today, so does that mean—”

“Focus on your own practice, Bokuto,” an authoritative voice calls. Sawamura Daichi strides into the locker room, dumps his duffel bag of goalie gear on the floor and begins unbuttoning his coat. “Congratulations on getting here early for once, though. You’ve been late, what, six times?”

“Why does everyone bring that up!?”

By the time Hajime finishes changing, most of the team has arrived. He tucks his hockey stick under one arm and follows Sawamura, Mattsun and Hanamaki out the side entrance into a hallway facing the rink. Mattsun stifles a laugh when they pass Bokuto, struggling to fasten his shoulder pads while pleading with an unimpressed second year to lend him a sock.

“Kinda makes you wonder how that guy got to be the starting center,” Hanamaki snorts, spinning his helmet in his hands.

Hajime punches him in the shoulder and Hanamaki drops his equipment with a splutter. “Says the guy on the bench.”

Mattsun doesn’t bother hiding his laughter this time as Hanamaki swears and falls to the floor to locate his mouth guard. Sawamura shakes his head, smiling, as he shoves open the door to the rink. “Low blow, Iwaizumi.”

Hajime opens his mouth to retort, but the words die in his throat when they stride through the entrance. He vaguely processes Mattsun asking him a question (“Hey, Makki wants you to know that thanks to you making him drop his—wait, what? Ugh! Don’t put that thing in your mouth, what the fuck are you doing, that’s disgusting—”) but Hajime’s eyes are glued to the sight in front of him.

Blindingly bright fluorescent lights reflect off gleaming ice covering three full-size skating rinks, two of which are crisscrossed with stark red and blue lines, the same patterns Hajime has been familiar with since junior high. But the one directly in front of them is bare white. And unlike the others, it’s occupied.

At the center of the rink, a skater leaps into the air, arms tucked tightly against his chest as he spins. One, two, three turns and he crashes back down with a hiss of friction as his skates scrape against the ice. He sweeps backwards across the rink dizzyingly fast, arms stretched out like wings. Every movement he makes is natural and smooth, the ebb and flow of tides against gravity.

Hajime has never seen anything like it.

The skater’s feet begin to blur as he picks up momentum, and a moment later, he’s in the air again, hurling himself sideways so he lands at an angle with one leg extended and his head tilted back, exposing the long column of his neck. Catching the tip of his skate on the ice, he immediately catapults into another jump, whipping into spin after spin.

“Hey, Sawamura, Iwaizumi! Get over here!”

Startled, Hajime glances up to see Coach Ukai pointing at them from the next rink over with a hockey stick, scowl already in place. “What are you boys doing over there? Start warming up!”

“Yessir!”

They run the same drills as always, starting with passing practice and then taking turns scoring with Sawamura as goalie. Twenty minutes in, Hajime is already dripping sweat despite the chill emanating from the ice, and Coach Ukai calls for a water break as he analyzes his notes on the offense’s new attack pattern.

Hajime skates over to the rink’s edge and grabs his water bottle, tipping his head back and downing half of it in one go. He can’t help but glance over at the rink to his left, and sure enough, the figure skater from earlier is still there. He’s stripped down to a tank top now, and if anything, his practice looks even more intense than when Hajime first arrived. His form is more aggressive now, though still infinitely more graceful than Hajime’s own, and when he throws himself into another convoluted jump, his skates skid out from under him at the landing and he crashes down to one knee.

Hajime’s eyes open wide in shock, but a moment later the skater is up again, panting harder than before as he prepares for the jump again. This time, even Hajime, who has no knowledge of figure skating, can tell that he nails it.

The skater sweeps his hair back from his eyes and smiles, sweat trickling down the contours of his shoulder muscles. Hajime thinks distantly that his hair is a nice color. Like chocolate caramel. Then he wonders why he would ever think of something that stupid and mentally berates himself.

The skater glances to the other side of the rink as he skates a few cool down laps, and for a second, his eyes meet Hajime’s. His smile grows bigger, as if he knows Hajime was watching.

Hajime looks away and tries to ignore the hotness in his cheeks.

“Wow!” Bokuto exclaims from behind him, gesturing wildly with his water bottle in the figure skater’s general direction. He knocks his shoulder into Hajime’s excitedly. “That guy is crazy good! I wish I could do that!”

“Stop sloshing water everywhere,” Mattsun grumbles, slapping Bokuto’s arm down.

Hanamaki leans over Mattsun’s shoulder, watching the skater with a bored expression on his face. “Pfft, that doesn’t look too hard,” he scoffs. “I took a figure skating class once in junior high. It’s not all that difficult.”

Remembering the way the mystery figure skater had effortlessly danced across the ice, Iwaizumi finds that hard to believe. So does Bokuto, apparently, because he pouts and says, “Oh yeah? Then show us a move! Try doing that spinny one where you go all swoosh like you’re scoring a goal, like—” Bokuto makes an indecipherable gesture with his arms and nearly whacks Iwaizumi in the face with his hockey stick. “Like whoosh!”

Hanamaki skates backwards for a bit and tries a wobbly experimental spin on the ice, flailing one leg out like he’s in a yoga class for middle-aged soccer moms. “See, it’s easy—” Mattsun shoves him and Hanamaki topples over with a squawk.

Ukai yells at them to get back to work, and for the rest of practice, they split into teams and run through plays. It should be easy, but for some reason, Hajime finds himself unable to stop sneaking glances at the figure skating rink. It’s stupid and he knows it, but he can’t help but feel that unshakeable sense of awe when the skater defies physics in impossible leaps and spins.

“Iwaizumi, focus!” Ukai yells when Hajime overshoots a pass to Bokuto for the second time in a row.

“Sorry!” he pants, and tries (unsuccessfully) to wipe the image from his mind.

When practice finally ends, Hajime feels frazzled and edgy, and Sawamura gives him a concerned look as they pack up their gear and head back to the locker room to change. “You okay?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. “You seemed a little off today.”

Hajime nods jerkily. “‘I’m fine, I just…” The back of his neck flushes uncomfortably hot, and he rubs it self-consciously with one hand. “I dunno, maybe I’m coming down with something. Hopefully Ukai isn’t too fed up with me; I’ll do better next time.”

Sawamura blinks, then reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t stress about it. Even when you’re not in top form, you’re still one of our best players. Make sure to get some rest tonight, we don’t want you to miss the next practice match because you’ve been studying too hard and made yourself sick or whatever. I know pre-med can be rough.”

Iwaizumi gives a shaky laugh and turns away to yank his jersey over his head. “Yeah,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric. “Yeah, thanks.”

When Sawamura walks off to grab his own clothes, Iwaizumi rests his forehead against the cool metal of the locker in front of him and closes his eyes. That dumbass smug smile, the pull and flex of arm muscles beneath pale skin, the way sweat trickled over sharp collarbones… it’s like a looping video imprinted into his retinas.

Hajime slams his head against the locker door so hard it rattles, and when he opens his eyes again he sees nothing but the calming pale blue of the tile floor beneath his socked feet. He shakes his head again just to be safe, and shrugs on his coat and scarf before bending down to lace up his boots. _Orgo test tomorrow,_ he reminds himself. _Focus on that, Hajime._

As he walks back to campus to get his books for his morning class, Bokuto chattering away at his side, he repeats the list of functional groups he was supposed to memorize under his breath and determinedly focuses his gaze on the shivering of tree branches in the breeze. Windblown leaves dance across the pavement as morning mist settles into a heavy blanket of fog.

He and Bokuto stop to wait at the street corner. Still feeling jittery, Hajime breaks his chemistry mantra to take a deep breath. _Calm thoughts,_ he tells himself. Then he catches a glimpse of chocolate-brown hair and whips around so fast his neck cracks.

It’s nothing. Just another university student hanging out in downtown with her friends.

Bokuto pauses in his rant about pretty-boy-from-history-class and raises his eyebrows. “Uh... you okay?”

Hajime frowns and pulls his scarf tighter, gluing his eyes to the sidewalk in front of him. “Yeah. Sorry. Carboxyl groups have only one alcohol attached, right?”

“How should I know? Engineering major, bro. Ask me about calculus or how to make things explode and I’ve got your back.”

“One alcohol,” Hajime decides, nodding to himself. “One alcohol and double-bonded to oxygen. Anyway, what was that about your dumbass crush?”

Bokuto turns a magnificent shade of scarlet and stutters unintelligibly, torn between protesting that pretty-boy is most definitely not a dumbass (“He’s like, the smartest in my class! Whenever he comments in seminars everyone’s always like ‘uwahhh’ and he was the only one to get an A on the first essay, I know because I was trying to sneak a glance at his paper to learn his name—”) and claiming it’s not a crush. (It is, though. If even Hajime notices, it definitely is.)

Hajime laughs and listens and makes the occasional teasing comment, and when they part ways, he goes straight to his room to grab his books and practically speed walks to class. He dutifully takes notes on the professor’s lecture, not allowing his focus to once stray from the powerpoint slides in front of him. He jokes around with his classmates afterwards as they head the library to pick up the required reading, and he chooses his favorite spot by the fireplace to review his chemistry notes before his afternoon class.

And if he occasionally gets distracted by the thought of a certain heart-stopping smile, well... it doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, and returns to his notes with extra diligence.

 

**\---**

 

Over the course of the next week, Hajime develops a Fail-Safe System™ for surviving the rest of the semester. He divides his focus between the following activities:

  1. Schoolwork. His Orgo professor hands him back his exam with a pleased “well done” written in the margins, and every day he spends several hours studying in the common room while Bokuto and Kuroo trade terrible statistics puns in the background. If he wants quiet, he packs up his textbooks and braves the arctic trek to the library, where he meets with Sugawara to drink obscene amounts of coffee and review physiology.

  2. Hockey. He plays so well in their practice match on Wednesday that even Ukai compliments him, and every night he goes to bed with sore muscles and wakes up alert for morning practice.

  3. Ignoring Oikawa Tooru.




It’s while talking with Kuroo’s partner, Kenma, that Hajime finally learns the mystery skater’s name. Hajime likes Kenma: he’s quiet, astute, and almost never looks up from his handheld game. After one particularly tiring afternoon practice and an unexpected downpour, the four of them—Kuroo, Kenma, Bokuto and Hajime—take shelter in the quaint little coffee shop by the rink, sports bags piled up under the table and clutching warm cups of coffee (hot chocolate, in Bokuto’s case) as they wait out the rain. As usual, Bokuto is enthusing over his pretty-boy-from-history-class, now known as Akaashi Keiji, and somehow the conversation drifts from there to the topic of the rest of the figure skating team, whom Hajime has yet to meet.

“Kenma and I only do pair skating competitions,” Kuroo explains, blowing steam off the surface of his cappuccino. “Most people generally focus on just pair or solo. There’re a couple guys on our team who do both, though. One of them’s in America right now for some prestigious competition. The other guy, Oikawa Tooru, is like… how would you even begin to describe Oikawa, Kenma?”

“Annoying,” Kenma mumbles, eyes focused on the PSP clutched in his hands. His black and blonde streaked hair is still dripping rainwater onto the table from the sprint here. “He’s aiming to be chosen for the 2018 Winter Olympics team.”

“Yeah, he’s fucking insane,” Kuroo nods sagely. “Nice guy, though.”

Hajime thinks he hears Kenma mutter, “Is he really,” but maybe that was just the sound of rain pattering against the window.

“That’s so cool!” Bokuto crows, swinging his hockey stick excitedly. Hajime yanks it out of his hand and leans it against the wall before he accidentally smashes Kenma’s face in. (According to Sawamura, Bokuto is now under the “below the knees” rule to prevent him from causing his teammates bodily harm.)

“Maybe I should try for the Olympics!” Bokuto continues with mounting excitement. “I bet I could make it in! I’m amazing!”

Kenma looks up from his game and opens his mouth to say something, but abruptly cuts off in a muffled sneeze, prompting Kuroo to whip off his jacket and towel dry Kenma’s soaked hair. “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t stop shivering,” Kuroo chides, unwrapping his own scarf and tucking it around Kenma’s neck. Kenma still looks like a drowned cat, albeit slightly more annoyed and fluffed up than before.

“I was going to say that if anyone makes it to the Olympics, it would be Tooru,” he says after a pause, frowning at the neon _Game Over_ flashing on his PSP screen. “He works harder than any of us.”

Hajime takes a long sip of coffee that nearly scalds his tongue and pointedly stares out the window. Unfortunate pedestrians caught unawares in the deluge rush by holding newspapers over their heads, boots splashing through ankle-deep puddles as the sky roils and thunders above.

A gush of rainwater shivers down the windowpane, blurring his view into a welter of light and color.

**\---**

Considering how simple Hajime’s Fail-Safe System is, it’s rather hard to follow.

During nearly every hockey practice, the figure skating team is one rink over rehearsing their routines. It’s a small group, maybe five or six students, but that only serves to highlight each skater’s talent even more, though none of them radiate the same kind of confidence and technical skill as Oikawa.

But by exerting himself harder and harder every practice, Hajime manages to not once look over at Oikawa Tooru. It’s difficult, especially when the two teams pass each other in the locker room or joke around together during breaks, but he sticks to his plan.

That is, for one week.

When Monday morning practice rolls around again, Hajime is finally able to breathe easy knowing that the figure skating team takes this day off. He joins Matsukawa and Hanamaki on the bench next to the rink before warm-ups and starts lacing up his skates.

“So I went up to the professor,” Hanamaki’s saying, “and I’m like, bro, my Nspire just died, so can I make up the test some other time? But she just goes, you brought extra batteries, right? And I’m thinking, who the fuck actually brings extra batteries? So I lied and said that I tried new batteries and it didn’t work, and then you know what she does?”

Mattsun looks up from his Love Live game with a bored expression. “What?”

“She takes my calculator and, and, she freaking slams it on her desk so hard it cracks the screen! Then she just looks at it with a frown and goes, ‘Weird, that usually works.’”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Your professor broke your perfectly working calculator while trying to fix it because you lied to her and said it was actually broken?”

Hanamaki points a finger at him. “Exactly!”

Mattsun snorts. “Wait, so do you have to buy a new one now? They’re ridiculously expensive, you know.”

“Just use one of those online apps,” Hajime suggests, but Hanamaki makes an aghast expression.

“Are you kidding me? Those are complete shit, half of them can’t even do basic matrices. But,” Hanamaki scoffs, “you wouldn’t know, being a bio major and all.”

Mattsun nods in agreement. “It is the easiest science.”

“Doesn’t even compare to physics.”

“It’s more on the level of, like, psychology. Or even worse—sociology.”

“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Hajime feels a vein pop in his forehead. “That’s not even fucking true, just because of one lameass proton gradient everyone gives mitochondria all the credit when _actually_ there wouldn’t even be any fucking ATP if—”

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone talk so passionately about the electron transport chain before,” a musical voice interrupts.

“What the fuck do you know?” Hajime growls, whipping around to confront the newcomer, and… oh.

Oikawa Tooru stands in front of him, chocolate-brown eyes wide open in surprise. His cheeks are a little pink, lips parted, and that’s when Hajime comes to the awkward realization that their faces are ten inches apart, max.

Hajime leaps back, face burning. “Um,” he says eloquently. He thinks distantly that it’s probably basic social etiquette to apologize for almost punching a near complete stranger, but can’t bring himself to do it.

Oikawa laughs, and wow, does he have a pretty laugh. Not like Hajime notices, obviously.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Oikawa chirps, running one hand through his hair. “I just wanted to ask what time the ice hockey team starts practice; I need to talk to your coach.” He eyes Mattsun’s pajama-pants-with-shin-pads ensemble and his smile slips a little. “...You guys are on the hockey team, right?”

Mattsun yawns.

Hajime clears his throat. “Yeah. Um. Yeah, we’re on the hockey team.”

Oikawa raises one eyebrow expectantly. “So…”

“Practice starts now, actually,” Sawamura says, walking up to stand next to (read as: save) Hajime. “It’s time for laps, grab your sticks and get going.”

“That’s what she said,” Hanamaki and Mattsun chorus. Hajime whacks them upside the head and leaves Sawamura to sort things out with Oikawa, wondering how it’s possible for someone to come across as that infuriating without speaking more than a couple sentences.

After fifteen minutes of drills, Hajime deems it safe to glance over to the bench. Oikawa is talking with Ukai, smiling and nodding, and when he gives a charismatic little laugh Hajime feels vaguely nauseous and suddenly develops a strong urge to hit something. A moment later, Ukai claps Oikawa on the back and returns to the rink. Hajime practices deep breathing.

Ukai sets up a series of practice games, and Oikawa watches every single one from the rink’s edge. He rests his chin in one hand, eyes narrowed, and observes their plays like he’s analyzing a puzzle.

At 1-0,  Hajime darts around Mattsun to slam a goal past Sawamura, and he can’t help but grin as he turns to wipe the sweat from his brow. That’s when he sees that Oikawa has neglected to watch the other players and is now just staring at _him_.

The moment they make eye contact, Oikawa smirks. Hajime immediately scowls and looks away.

When Ukai finally blows the whistle, Hajime is just about ready to storm out of the building and run back to campus, skates and all. But before they even get off the ice, Ukai calls them over, and Hajime reluctantly follows his teammates to the edge of the rink. His stomach turns when he sees that Oikawa is happily standing next to their coach and—oh, god forbid—he’s wearing ice skates now.

Hajime doesn’t know what’s going on, but he does know that he most definitely did not sign up for this.

Ukai clears his throat. “Boys, this is Oikawa Tooru. You’ve probably heard of him—he’s one of the best athletes at our school and is nationally ranked.”

Oikawa fakes a modest smile and gives a little wave. Hajime grinds his teeth.

“Anyway, Oikawa approached me with an idea that I think would be a great opportunity for one of you,” Ukai says. He looks over at Oikawa, who takes it as his cue to give another dorky wave. Hajime thinks he might be on the verge of an aneurysm.

“Nice to meet you, everyone!” Oikawa beams. “I’m here today because my pair skating partner, Ushijima,” Oikawa rolls his eyes, “ditched me to go to a competition in America. So I was wondering if one of you buff hockey players would be willing to temporarily substitute for him! I would ask other skaters on my team, but they’re all too busy with their own routines to help out,” he pouts.  “But trust me, it’ll be really fun! And don’t worry, no matter how awful you are at skating, you’ll still be less annoying than Ushiwaka-chan. Besides, all you have to do is assist me in throw jumps and stuff like that for a few practices a week—all very basic.”

“What’s a throw jump?” Bokuto whispers to Hajime. Hajime hits him in the leg with his hockey stick.

Oikawa claps his hands. “I think the best way to show you what you’d be signing up for is to do a quick little demo! Any volunteers?”

Bokuto’s face lights up and he waves his hand in the air. “Oooh, pick me! I wanna try!” Most of the other teammates share uncertain glances. Meanwhile, Hajime puts on his most intimidating scowl and glares at the ice.

“Hmmm, let’s see… how about you?”

Hajime looks up with growing dread, and sure enough, Oikawa’s index finger is pointing right at his chest. “Uh. No.”

“Aw, don’t be so negative!” Oikawa chides, grabbing Hajime’s wrist and dragging him towards the center of the rink. Hajime desperately digs his skates into the ice.

“No, I really don’t—” he protests.

“It’ll be fun!”

“Seriously, I’m not—”

“You’ll do great!”

“For fuck’s sake, just let go of me already—”

Oikawa shushes him—literally shushes him, like  he’s a fucking toddler misbehaving at daycare—and lightly sets his hands on Hajime’s shoulders to adjust his stance. “Perfect! You just stand right there.”

Hajime feels like this situation is spinning out of his control and he has no way of stopping it. “Wait,” he says frantically. “I’ve never even figure skated before, what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I’ll be doing most of the work! You just stand there for a bit while I do the approach, and then when you see me jump, you just kind of spin me around a bit without dropping me! It’s easy.”

That does not sound easy. Hajime contemplates the merits of purposefully dropping Oikawa. Or even better, just outright throwing him across the rink.

Before he can decide, Oikawa’s already circled back to the opposite end of the ice. “I’ve only just started practicing this move, so sorry if it’s a little rough around the edges,” he calls.

He pushes off with a confident sweep of his skates, and Hajime is once again reminded why Oikawa is considered one of the best figure skaters in Japan. Every movement flows into the next like water, like Oikawa is a force of nature to rival the ice beneath him. He doesn’t need to defy gravity—he dances with it.

He’s mesmerizing.

Oikawa’s skates crack against the ice as he lands from his first jump, and his momentum carries him straight towards Hajime, skates leaving gleaming designs in the ice behind him. Hajime realizes he’s staring and frowns to himself. Wasn’t he supposed to be doing something…?

Oh, right. Catching Oikawa.

Shit.

Hajime flings his arms out, panicking and unsure of what to do and certain that he is going to fail, he knew this would be a disaster, he knew it the moment Oikawa fucking Tooru opened his goddamn mouth—

And then the strangest sensation comes over him.

Everything sharpens into focus, drenched in color as though Hajime was only looking through sepia before. He’s acutely aware of his heartbeat, the thrum of blood pounding in his ears, the drip of sweat down his temple. The ice feels raw and alive beneath him. All his doubts shrink into insignificance. Hajime’s never felt so sure of himself in his life, because for a moment Oikawa’s face passes in front of his, so close he can count the faint freckles dusting his pale skin and feel the puff of his breath.

Oikawa mouths, _now_.

Hajime reaches to wrap his hands around Oikawa’s waist and it’s there. He bends his knees and springs up, letting Oikawa’s momentum spin him up and out of Hajime’s hands. Like a slow-motion video, Hajime can see every wisp of Oikawa’s hair whip past his face as he turns.

Oikawa skids to a stop the moment he hits the ice. He’s staring at Hajime. For the first time since they’ve met, he doesn’t look fake, doesn’t look contemptuous or calculating or charismatic or like any of the facades that Hajime instantly hated. Oikawa’s eyes are wide with an emotion Hajime can’t quite put his finger on.

Surprise, maybe. Shock.

Wonder.

“BRO! THAT WAS FUCKING _INCREDIBLE!_ ”

The adrenaline leaves Hajime in a rush, muscles tingling with the loss. He looks over at his teammates. Bokuto is practically jumping with excitement, Hanamaki’s mouth is slightly open, and for once, Mattsun doesn’t look tired.

“I didn’t know you figure skated,” Sawamura says, impressed.

Hajime coughs. “I don’t.”

A slender hand wraps around his wrist with a viselike grip. Oikawa Tooru, face more terrifying than Hajime thought was possible on someone that stupid-looking, yanks Hajime into line behind him and marches over to Ukai.

Oikawa lifts his chin with determination and jabs a finger into Hajime’s chest. “I want him.”

Ukai is looking at Hajime like he’s never seen him before. “Uh,” he stutters. That in itself is disturbing; Ukai is never at a loss for words.

Oikawa turns to Hajime. “What’s your name?”

“...Iwaizumi Hajime...”

“Ukai-sensei, please allow me to borrow Iwa-chan for practice!”

Hajime’s eye twitches. “ _Iwa-chan?_ ”

Ukai nods slowly. “After seeing the way you two work together, I think this could be a great opportunity for both of you.”

Hajime is starting to feel a little excluded from this decision. “Um, sensei,” he blurts, “I don’t know if this is a good idea. It might distract me from hockey practice.”

Ukai barks a laugh. “Iwaizumi-kun, you’re already a starter and one of the best offensive players on my team. This is an opportunity to practice with a highly dedicated and skilled athlete; don’t pass on it too lightly.”

Hajime tries to think of a way to refuse without sounding like he’s disregarding his coach’s advice. Nothing comes to mind except knocking Ukai out with his hockey stick and making a run for it. Oikawa would probably tackle him, though.

There’s only one right answer, but Hajime still feels like he’s signing his own death warrant. “Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll do it.”

Oikawa gives a little squeal of excitement and claps his hands. Hajime feels vaguely squeamish.

The rest of the team has already left for the locker rooms while they were talking with Ukai, so Hajime heads over to the bench to take off his skates, Oikawa tagging alongside him. “Iwa-chan and I are going to be best friends, I know it already,” he singsongs, slinging one arm over Hajime’s shoulders.

Hajime slaps him away as he starts unlacing his skates. “Don’t call me Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, oh, we’ve got to exchange numbers!” Oikawa exclaims. He grabs at Hajime’s thigh and feels around for his pockets. “ _Iwa-channnn_ , where’s your pho—”

Hajime turns bright red and shoves Oikawa away. “Stop groping me, Trashykawa!”

Oikawa gasps and crosses his arms with a pout. “Rude! What have I ever done to deserve such harsh treatment—”

“Fine. You’re upgraded to Shittykawa.”

_“Rude!”_

When Hajime finally escapes to the locker room, he takes his time changing, wanting to make sure that Oikawa won’t be waiting for him outside (because he’s definitely weird enough to do that). Bokuto already had to leave for his morning class, so Hajime shrugs on his coat and ventures out alone into the cold, sports bag swinging by his side as he traverses the frost-covered pavement to the street corner.

As he waits for the traffic light to turn, he feels a faint buzzing in his back pocket. Hajime pulls out his phone automatically and checks his messages.

 

**♥ baekawa tooru ♥ says:**

make sure to get up nice and early for practice tomorrow~  

i wouldnt want iwa-chan to be all grumpy  ಠ╭╮ಠ

 

Hajime debates asking how and when Oikawa managed to steal his phone and input his contact information, but decides some things are better left unknown.

He texts back, “assikawa,” and ignores the indignant buzzing of his phone as it’s bombarded with new replies for the rest of the walk back to campus.

 **  
** (He doesn’t set it on silent, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (([tumblr](http://shimiizuu.tumblr.com/)))


	2. chiaroscuro

**chiaroscuro** (noun)

  1. the treatment and effect of contrasted light and shadow, especially in a work of art.
  2. Iwaizumi Hajime’s dawning understanding of the kaleidoscope of contradiction that is Oikawa Tooru.



 

* * *

 

When Hajime arrives at the rink the next morning, Oikawa is waiting for him outside, chin tucked into his scarf and little clouds of breath escaping from his lips as he sips a coffee. When he spots Hajime, his eyes light up. “Iwa-chan! You’re two minutes late. You need to be more punctual or no girl will ever—”

Hajime punches him in the shoulder, making him yelp and sop coffee onto his gloves. “Dumbass,” Hajime grumbles, fighting back a yawn. “Why are you waiting outside anyway? It’s freezing.”

“Because I’m such a nice person, obviously!” Hajime gives Oikawa a skeptical look. “Well, actually the rink is locked this early.”

“What.”

“Don’t worry!” Oikawa says quickly. He shoves his coffee cup into Hajime’s hands and rummages around in his sports bag. “I got a spare key from one of the cute manager girls, but the door locks automatically behind me, so I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be locked out!”

That’s… irritatingly thoughtful of him.

Hajime follows Oikawa into the locker room and they change quickly, Hajime opting for a T-shirt and sweatpants rather than his usual snowman-like hockey padding. Oikawa’s locker is on the opposite side of the room, so Hajime slings his skates over one shoulder and pads over to him, socked feet slipping against the tile floor.

“So,” he grunts, “what exactly is this practice going to involve? Like, do I just stand there and, I dunno, watch while you do your routine until the pair throw thing happens?”

“Relax, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa zips up a mint green sports jacket and yanks on his athletic socks, which appear to be patterned with… alien reindeer? Hajime didn’t get a good look. “I have regular practice for rehearsing my normal stuff. Right now, I’m dedicating my time to you!” He grabs his skates and nudges his locker closed before giving Hajime a peace sign and a wink. “You should be grateful!”

“Why would I be grateful for spending time with you, Trashkawa?”

Oikawa pats him on the shoulder consolingly. “I know it’s hard for Iwa-chan to admit that I’m a much better athlete and far prettier than him, so I’ll forgive that one.”

Hajime punches him again.

They walk to the rink side by side, Oikawa with a bounce in his step and humming under his breath, Hajime dragging his feet. He feels irrationally nervous; though he reminds himself that Oikawa is probably expecting a beginner (and he doesn’t give a shit what Oikawa thinks of him anyway), he can’t help but squirm uncomfortably at the thought of failing miserably. Hajime’s athletic and has a natural aptitude for most sports, and he knows this. But figure skating… in all honesty, Hajime’s never even considered it much of a sport. When he thinks back to the way Oikawa waltzed across the ice, every movement choreographed to effortless perfection, calling it art seems much more fitting.

Cold fingers brush against Hajime’s arm. Oikawa has paused in his humming, looking at Hajime with a contemplative expression. “Iwa-chan,” he says quietly. “Stop worrying. I’m the one who asked you to do this.” Oikawa withdraws his hand and looks forward with a slight smile. “I believe in you.”

“I’m not worried,” Hajime lies. He kind of misses the reassuring touch, which poses an unforeseen emotional anomaly that greatly irritates him. “I’m just calculating the probability of you causing enough damage during the next hour to put me in the hospital.”

Oikawa throws his hands up in the air dramatically. “What have I ever done to deserve such cruel treatment?”

“Exist.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” he whines, nose scrunched up in a childish pout, and Hajime realizes his nervousness has abated to nothing more than faint butterflies in his stomach.

Even that melts away once Hajime steps onto the ice. As they run through stretches and warm-ups, his muscles instinctively sink into their familiar rhythm, honed through years of practice. Oikawa’s unceasing cheerfulness is undeniably contagious, and soon Hajime can’t help but grin (though he scowls stubbornly when Oikawa smiles back).

“I think that’s probably enough,” Oikawa announces, rolling his shoulders back in anticipation.  “We’re not going to be trying anything too strenuous today. You clearly have natural ability, judging from yesterday, but your form was awful.” He pokes Hajime’s chest. “You’re gonna have to correct that if you don’t want to pop a kneecap or something.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest as Oikawa demonstrates the proper stance. “A throw jump is dictated by the jumper,” he explains, shifting into a ready position not unlike a hockey player. “Your job is to initiate the spin and focus my momentum towards the correct angle. It’s not really a throw at all, but more of an assist.”

He spends at least ten minutes examining Hajime’s stance, hands fluttering over his shoulders and waist and gently guiding his arms to the correct spot. “At the end of my approach, you grab me like so,” he grasps Hajime’s hands and places them on either side of his hips, “and I’ll hold your forearms and use them to push off. You have to keep them bent a little, or else you might injure yourself. Or even worse,” Oikawa scrunches his nose again, “drop me.”

Hajime does as Oikawa instructs, the movement drawing them together until their chests are nearly touching. “Like this?”

This close, Hajime can observe Oikawa sticking his tongue out of the corner of mouth in concentration, brow furrowed as he makes minute adjustments to his own stance to match Hajime’s. Calloused, raw fingertips skim across Hajime’s knuckles before sliding up to encircle his wrists, and Hajime finds himself puzzling over whether Oikawa bites his nails. It’s not a habit he would have expected from someone so self-assured.

“Perfect,” Oikawa says, looking up with a beaming smile. Hajime grins back in satisfaction.

Oikawa blinks once, mouth parted.

Then he leaps back, releasing Hajime’s wrists like they’ve burned him. He coughs and pushes his hair out of his face, cheeks tinged pink. “Um. Okay then. Looks like you’ve got that part down now.”

“Should we try walking through a jump?” Hajime offers uncertainly, wondering why Oikawa looks flustered. Maybe, he thinks with a sinking feeling, he isn’t quite meeting Oikawa’s expectations. He wonders how good a partner Ushijima was—probably excellent, considering he’s ranked the best solo college figure skater in Japan, even higher than Oikawa.

Oikawa jumps a little and clears his throat. “Oh, yes! Good idea, Iwa-chan.”

For the next thirty minutes or so, Oikawa teaches him about the various timing differences between jumps, walking him through each type of throw. When to step in, when to grab Oikawa and when to let go, when to skate out of the way and when to not—these are all unique factors Hajime has to consider, and it’s difficult to keep track of them, though Oikawa assures him he’ll get the hang of it.

Oikawa makes a surprisingly adept teacher, but he’s unusually quiet and restrained, which only adds to Hajime’s worry. They don’t even get a real jump in before Oikawa calls it a day. He quickly skates over to the bench and begins unlacing his skates, still not meeting Hajime’s eyes.

“You want to stop already?” Hajime asks. Oikawa looks at him questioningly, and Hajime coughs. “Not, not like I want to practice longer or anything, because I don’t. But I know you spent most of this time accommodating for my lack of experience, so if you want to try working on one of your routines or something…”

Oikawa blinks in surprise before giving him another one of those beaming smiles. “Aw, Iwa-chan’s so sweet!” He tugs off his skates and starts walking to the locker room, sweeping his hair back with one hand. “But even if you’re an unacademic Neanderthal, I actually have a morning class that I need to prepare for!”

Hajime splutters and jogs after Oikawa, catching the locker room door and slipping through after him before it can close. “Excuse me? I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I’m doing fucking pre-med, how is that slacking off—”

Oikawa waves a hand. “Oh, please. Anyone can study bio, it’s just memorizing a bunch of random genetic conditions and STDs.” He slips his tank top over his head and ducks out of his workout leggings, tossing them into his sports bag. “I, on the other hand, am an astrophysics major, so I know what _real_ science looks like—”

Hajime grabs his shoulder and whirls him around. “So you spend your time watching Star Wars while I learn how to perform heart surgeries?”

Oikawa’s eyes widen with delight. “Why, Iwa-chan, no need to be so rough!” He shrugs Hajime’s hand off his bare shoulder and wags a finger in Hajime’s face, cocking his black-boxer-clad hip. “You need to learn to use your words!”

“I’m not the immature one here. Now stop dancing around in your underwear and put some goddamn clothes on.”

Oikawa strikes a pose, leaning one shoulder against the locker like a swimsuit model. “Aw, poor modest Iwa-chan,” he purrs, fluttering his eyelashes, “were you enjoying the view?”

Heat creeps up the back of Hajime’s neck and he turns away to grab his jeans. “Shut up, Trashykawa. Do you get off on annoying people or something?”

“Only with you!”

Hajime just groans in response and slams his locker shut with extra venom, wondering why everyone seems to hate biology majors.

 

\---

  

“It’s because you guys aren’t doing, like, actual hard stuff,” Bokuto informs him seriously, golden eyes narrowed in concentration as he carefully places the next card on his tower. They’re sitting cross-legged around a coffee table in the dorm common room, surrounded by the comfortable buzz of other students’ conversation and cozy warmth from a crackling fireplace. Hajime looks down at his chemistry notes spread across the carpet and wonders in what world is this not considered difficult.

“Ha!” Bokuto exclaims triumphantly, fist-punching the air when his tower remains standing. “Two cards higher than your try, Kuroo! Told you I could do it!”

Kuroo swats at the tower with one hand without even looking up from his economics essay. The cards spill across the table and Bokuto huffs. “Don’t be such a sore loser,” he whines, flinging a card at Kuroo.

“Your mom was pretty sore after last night,” Kuroo deadpans, eyes reflecting the bluish glow of his laptop screen like a cat’s. Bokuto hoots indignantly and throws the entire deck at him. Kuroo keeps typing.

Hajime jabs Bokuto with his pencil to get his attention. “What do you mean, ‘actual hard stuff?’”

Hanamaki glances over at them from the couch, where he’s lounging with his head in Matsukawa’s lap as he checks over his algebraic proof. “That’s what she—”

“What are you, twelve?”

Kuroo closes his laptop with a long-suffering sigh. “Think of it this way,” he says patiently, flicking cards out his hair. “You live in a dorm full of physics and engineering majors. It’s their job to make fun of other sciences; that’s how they maintain their shreds of self-esteem when they realize how fucking nerdy it is to willingly study math past calculus. If you want people to be nice to you, hang out with more humanities majors.”

“Akaashi is a humanities major,” Bokuto pipes up helpfully, heaving his robotics textbook onto the table with a loud thud.

Hajime’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out to scroll through his new messages. He groans when he sees the sender.

Kuroo laughs at Hajime’s disgruntled expression. “Who is it, your girlfriend?”

“No, it’s Oikawa.”

“Same difference.”

Hajime stuffs his phone back in his pocket without bothering to read the text. “He’s just so fucking annoying,” he says, pushing loose cards off his notes and uncapping a highlighter. “Thank god we only practice a few times a week; I don’t know how you handle being on the same team as him.”

“Oikawa is best in small doses,” Kuroo admits, “but he’s not that bad. Kenma hangs out with him all the time, and he usually has a pretty low tolerance for self-absorbed dumbassery.”

Bokuto’s expression turns thoughtful, which Hajime knows is an unusual occurrence and feels appropriately disturbed by. “Iwaizumi,” he says slowly, “why don’t you invite Oikawa to play a scrimmage with us? If he joins your side, we might finally have enough people for a three-on-three game.”

Hajime immediately shakes his head. “God, no. Just ask Kenma. Or your boyfriend, what’s his name… Akaashi?”

Bokuto pouts and crosses his arms. “I don’t even know if Akaashi likes hockey. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet,” Kuroo adds, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Bokuto high fives him. “Anyway, Kenma would never want to play with us; he hates competitive team sports. He’ll probably just bring a game and pretend not to watch.  Really, you should just ask Oikawa.”

Hajime sighs and looks back at his chemistry notes, highlighter hovering uncertainly. In front of his tired eyes, the neatly outlined text blurs into a jumbled mess of deltas and elemental symbols. Realizing that he doesn’t understand of it anyway, he snaps his binder closed and stuffs it into his messenger bag with a resigned sigh. His phone chimes again (Oikawa, no doubt), and Hajime rubs his temples. “I’m too old for this shit,” he says to himself.

Kuroo pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Kids these days,” he sighs, shaking his head mournfully. “Burnt out at eighteen.”

Hajime can't muster the energy to flip him off.

 

\---

 

The next few weeks go by in a blur, and suddenly December arrives in a rush of icy rain and driving winds that whip exposed skin raw and force final farewells from any lingering leaves still clinging to their branches. Hajime’s classes are more intense than ever, frantic professors cramming new units and tests in as dead week looms closer. Everyone is desperately trying to savor the last week of freedom before final exams obliterate social lives and take over every waking thought.

Somehow, Hajime’s schedule doesn’t change too drastically. He ends up spending this invaluable time playing hockey, studying, and putting up with Oikawa Tooru.

On Monday morning, Oikawa greets Hajime outside the rink, as has become their custom, with a bright smile and ( _So there is a god,_ Hajime marvels) two fresh cups of coffee. “You didn’t have to—” Hajime begins.

“I wanted to! You were so grumpy yesterday, I figured I’d be nice and take pity.” Oikawa hands him his cup, cold fingers brushing against Hajime’s gloves, and ducks away before Hajime can smack him for his comment. “At least pretend to be grateful,” he pouts, unlocking the door with a click. A rush of warm air billows out, and Hajime stamps the mud and rainwater off his boots before stepping inside.

“Yeah, yeah. How much do I owe you?”

But Oikawa’s already headed towards the locker room. “Hurry up, Iwa-chan!” he calls, downing the last dregs of his coffee and tossing the cup into a trash bin. “I want to show you a new jump I’m practicing!”

Hajime huffs and starts unwrapping his scarf. It’s unnatural to be this energetic in the morning, he thinks, but Oikawa’s excitement is contagious. By the time Hajime changes and leaves the locker room, Oikawa is already warming up, rolling his shoulders and kicking one leg high above his head.

“You’re so flexible, it’s creepy,” Hajime mutters, pulling his arm across his chest as he begins his own stretches.

Oikawa smirks and raises his leg even higher. Hajime winces. “Come on, Iwa-chan, you’re just jealous.” Oikawa waltzes over and grabs Hajime’s hips from behind. “If you want, I can teach you how to do the splits!”

Hajime shoves Oikawa away before he accidentally breaks something. “Thanks, but no thanks. What was it you wanted to show me?”

Oikawa grins and loops his arms loosely around Hajime’s neck. “I’ve been practicing my solo triple axel a lot,” he explains into the back of Hajime’s sweatshirt, “so I thought maybe we could try it as a throw jump!” He hooks his chin over Hajime’s shoulder, and Hajime sighs irritably but turns to look at him. “If Ushiwaka-chan and I can get that move down for a competition, it could add, like, seven points to our routine!”

Hajime feels a little nervous, but Oikawa’s eyes are sparkling, so he says, “We could try it, I guess…”

Oikawa smiles so brightly and genuinely at this that Hajime can’t bring himself to regret his decision, though he still tries his hardest to scowl menacingly.

Oikawa first demonstrates what a regular triple axel looks like (lots of spinning, Hajime thinks, but other than that it looks the same as all the other jumps) and then declares with an air of intrepidity that he’s ready to try with Hajime. Hajime rolls his eyes, but complies with Oikawa’s instructions, and as Oikawa begins to skate towards him, he feels himself falling back into their regular rhythm. After practicing nearly every day, they’re long past the initial stage of Oikawa having to correct Hajime’s every move. Hajime instinctively focuses on Oikawa’s eyes, gazing unflinchingly into their glittering depths, and counts under his breath in tempo with Oikawa’s movements. Just as he reaches eight, the tips of Oikawa’s skates leave the ice, and Hajime’s hands rest on his waist for a split second before spinning him, feather-light, into the air above.

As always, Oikawa lands with ease, sliding to a stop with a gentle scrape against the ice. He stares at Hajime, eyes narrowed. Hajime stands up straight under his scrutiny and wonders apprehensively if he did something wrong.

Then Oikawa launches himself at Hajime with a squeal and bowls him over backwards onto the ice with a loud smack.

“That was perfect!” Oikawa gushes, his face beaming down at Hajime. “Iwa-chan, you’re absolutely amazing! You got it perfectly on the first try; I can’t believe—”

Hajime sits up and shoves Oikawa off his legs with a groan. He wants to scold him, but Oikawa looks so thrilled that he finds himself saying, “It was all because of you, though. You timed it perfectly.”

Oikawa waves a hand. “Just accept that you’re incredible and I’m lucky to have you,” he says, as nonchalantly as though he tells people this every day.

Hajime’s face reddens and he looks away. “Dumbass. You can’t just go around telling people stuff like that.”

“But I mean it!” Oikawa says. “And don’t worry, Iwa-chan. I reserve all my compliments for you!”

“...Assikawa.”

“So mean!”

Oikawa drags Hajime up and insists on trying the jump again, but this time they’re not so fortunate. Hajime steps forward a beat too late and Oikawa crashes to the ice in an ungraceful heap.

“Iwa-chan!” he whines, rubbing his knee as he sits up. “I thought you had it! Was that on purpose?” He widens his eyes and pouts up at Hajime, cheeks pink and a bit of frost from the ice melting in his hair.

It’s kind of cute.

“Dumbass,” Hajime sighs, his hand fitting easily in Oikawa’s as he heaves him upright. “I wouldn’t actually drop you on purpose; I’m not that mean. Though it is hard to resist, sometimes.”

Oikawa laughs, bits of ice glimmering in his eyelashes and dusted across his nose. “Even when you say something nice, you still manage to make it an insult.” His fingers tighten around Hajime’s for a moment before letting go. “You really are a brute.”

Hajime shoves him and Oikawa laughs again, and then they practice some of their other moves for a while before Oikawa announces they’re done for the day. Hajime checks the time on his phone as they walk over to the locker rooms together, and there’s still a good half hour before he needs to get ready for hockey. “Hey,” he says, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder. “Want to get coffee or something? I still have time to waste before practice starts.”

Oikawa places one hand over his heart, eyes wide. “Iwa-chan is being… nice? I never thought this day would come.”

Hajime growls at him and Oikawa squeaks, just barely dodging Hajime’s punch in time. “I’m kidding, I’m—ow! _Mean, Iwa-chan!”_

 

\---

 

“So you want to be a surgeon?

Oikawa’s eyes blink curiously up at Hajime’s as he takes another delicate sip of his double-shot nonfat no-whip caramel mocha monstrosity, hands wrapped tightly around the chipped china for warmth. The two of them are seated at a small table near the window, safe from the light drizzle and morning chill outside.

Hajime hums in confirmation as he swallows a mouthful of coffee. “I’ve kind of always wanted to be a doctor ever since I picked up hockey. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of injuries; it is a contact sport, after all. One of my friends back in high school hurt his ankle, and his surgeon did a shit job with the ligaments, so he ended up quitting the sport. It wasn’t a huge deal to him, but,” Hajime shrugs, “I just thought, surely someone could be doing a better job, so why not me?”

Oikawa nods, eyes following a drop of rainwater as it trickles down the windowpane. “I guessed it might be because of something like that,” he says. He dips his spoon in the whipped cream topping his mocha and swirls it around thoughtfully. “You come across as a very caring person, you know.” He glances at Hajime out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth tugs up in a smirk. “Very motherly.”

Hajime frowns. “At least I don’t act like a spoiled child.”

Oikawa leans back in his chair with an affronted expression. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m quite charming.”

Hajime appraises Oikawa’s flawless waves of chocolate hair, the graceful angle of his jawline, the endearing half-smile lingering on his lips. He’s wrapped up in a wooly scarf, but it’s damp and sprinkled with rain, and the tip of his nose is red. (Typical, Hajime thinks. Oikawa is always cold.) The rest of his outfit consists of a knitted sweater patterned with spaceships and Christmas trees that should be the most hideous thing Hajime’s ever seen, but somehow, Oikawa makes it look runway worthy.

Hajime looks away from Oikawa’s expectant eyebrow raise. “Nah,” he mumbles, “you have an awful personality. Anyone who talks to you for more than five seconds would notice.”

“The unsophisticated masses have trouble recognizing genius.”

“We’re perfectly capable of recognizing stupidity, though.”

Oikawa snaps his fingers. “Oh, I think I get it! Are you talking about yourself?”

Hajime gets up to order another coffee before he can embarrass both of them by strangling Oikawa in a public place. As he waits in line, he surmises that currently he’s approximately 40% irritation, 30% amusement, and 20% weary acquiescence to Oikawa’s idiocy. The other 10% is probably caffeine.

“Iwa-chan! Can you get me another soy cappuccino with extra sweetener?”

Hajime reevaluates. The 10% is more likely murderous intent.

Oikawa is humming quietly and scrolling through his phone when Hajime reappears with both their drinks. He politely puts it away when Hajime sits and looks up attentively, smile already in place. Hajime feels simultaneously infuriated and flattered.

He clears his throat. “So, you haven’t told me much about your major. Astrophysics, right?”

The way Oikawa’s face lights up is beautiful to watch. “You remembered!” he exclaims happily. “People always seem skeptical when I tell them—I guess they assume I was only accepted on a sports scholarship, and astrophysics is supposed to be a challenging major.” He laughs. “My parents didn’t even believe me when I told them what I was studying.”

Hajime frowns. “You mean they assume you’re dumb, just because you’re a good athlete? That’s kind of shitty.”

Oikawa shrugs. “Yeah, well. Astrophysics isn’t that difficult, anyway—for me, at least. It’s all just so, so unprecedented and new; how could anyone not find it fascinating? I mean, we’re talking about investigating way back throughout the entire scale of history, but it’s going to determine everyone’s future. It’s not just theoretical mathematics anymore; eventually, we’re going to have the technology to explore it all ourselves, you know? Galaxies beyond the Milky Way, alternate universes… alien species, even.”

Hajime doesn’t know, but he nods anyway, because Oikawa glows when he discusses things he’s passionate about and it really should count as an eighth wonder of the world. “You mean, like, the final frontier and stuff?”

Oikawa gasps and leans over the table, nearly spilling his coffee as he grabs Hajime’s hand. “You know Star Trek?”

“Um.” Oikawa’s fingers are cool and soft, and Hajime, again for reasons he doesn’t understand, feels heat rush up the back of his neck. “Is that the video game with the metal bikini girl?”

Oikawa’s expression is a terrifying sight to behold.

“Excuse me? Oikawa-san?”

Two girls are standing next to their table, blushing profusely. One of them has stepped forward and is clutching a cutout magazine page in her trembling hands. “S-sorry to intrude,” she stutters, “but would you be willing to please sign this? We’re, we’re really big fans of yours.” Her friend nods fervently, fingers nervously twisting at her skirt.

Oikawa’s face relaxes into an easy smile. “Of course!” he chirps, releasing Hajime and taking the girls’ proffered sharpie to sign the poster. Hajime leans over to try to catch a glimpse of it, and it appears to be a glossy printout of Oikawa himself, waving to a cheering stadium as he skates across bouquet-strewn ice.

“Th-thank you so much!” the girl squeals, and Oikawa waves a hand and warmly pats her on the shoulder (she blushes so effusively that Hajime fears she might have a stroke).

“No, no,” Oikawa says, “thank _you_ for your support,” and soon enough he’s asking which of his competitions they’ve seen and how’s school going and do they want free tickets to his next performance?

All in all, he’s horrifically charismatic. Hajime wants to vomit.

“So,” Hajime mutters when the girls finally leave, “you've got a fan club?”

Oikawa smirks. “No need to look so surprised,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. “You may not know this because your grumpy old man face drives away all the girls, but young attractive athletes tend to draw admiration.” Oikawa smiles winningly but blanches when he notices Hajime’s expression. “Please don’t kill me.”

Hajime cracks his knuckles.

“Oh, look at the time!” Oikawa exclaims brightly, standing up and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder, “You should get to practice, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime checks his phone and curses. “God, I’m turning into Bokuto,” he mutters, fumbling through his wallet and dropping a few coins on the table as a tip. “I’ve been late to morning practice nearly every time I skate with you.”

“But that’s just because you love our time together, right?”

Hajime considers pouring his coffee dregs all over Oikawa’s perfectly styled curls.

They walk back to the rink side by side. (“I don’t need you to come with me,” Hajime said, but Oikawa just smiled and answered that he left his sweater there. Hajime wonders why Oikawa would wear two sweaters, but doesn’t question it.) He rolls up the sleeves of his coat, thankful that the storm from earlier has abated into a gentle drizzle. The road is strangely quiet without the usual hustle and bustle of cars and shoppers rushing by—apparently, most sane people are still in bed this early in the morning. Hajime listens to their footsteps’ offbeat rhythm against the pavement.

His boots splash through a puddle, disrupting the growing silence. Oikawa daintily steps over the rippling rainwater, eyes downcast, and says suddenly, “If you’re not interested in practicing with me anymore, it’s fine.”

Hajime looks over questioningly.

“You said I make you late all the time, and I don’t want you to lose your position as a starter,” Oikawa explains lightly, giving an insouciant shrug. “I’ve got my solo routines to practice, anyway. It’s not like I really need you to help me.”

Oikawa looks up and smiles at Hajime. He’s always smiling, Hajime thinks. But his hand taps nervously against his thigh as he walks, and he’s shivering a bit, shoulders hunched against the cold.

Hajime’s never been a master of subtlety. But now he watches Oikawa bite his lip and wonders if the confidence and poise he’s grown accustomed to has always been an illusion.

So he says, “Don’t be stupid,” and shucks off his coat. He tosses it at Oikawa, who catches it with a surprised expression. “Put it on, dumbass. You must be freezing.”  

A beat later, he adds, “I’m not gonna stop practicing with you until you ask me to. It’s fun, and I promised I’d help you. So stop worrying about it and don’t ask me something stupid like that again.”

Oikawa nods mutely, clutching Hajime’s coat to his chest before cautiously sliding it over his shoulders. Hajime looks forward resolutely, gaze focused on the sprinkles of red and gold still dotting the near-bare trees and graying sky. The two of them fall back into silence, listening to the leaves rustle beneath their feet.

When they reach the rink, Oikawa waves him goodbye and heads off to the library. As soon as Hajime steps inside the locker room, welcomed into the amicable warmth of his teammates’ greetings and a blasting furnace, he feels a familiar buzz in his pocket.

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

thanks, iwa-chan.

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

also, im going to make u watch star trek or die trying.

 

It’s only after practice, as Hajime walks back to his dorm amid a cold drizzle and dreary fog, that he realizes he never did ask for his coat back.

 

\---

 

**Iwaizumi Hajime:**

Hey do you want to join us for a 3-on-3 game tomorrow?

Kuroo and a few of the guys from my team will be there

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

yES I WANT TO MEET UR TEAM

are they all as grumpy as u tho (´-﹏-`；)

 

**Iwaizumi Hajime:**

Never mind then, invitation rescinded. Asskawa.

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

im sorry iwa-channnnnnnn :( :( i wanna go :( :( :(

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

IWA-CHAN I WILL FIGHT U

(ง •̀_•́)ง

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

iwa-chan??

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

??????????????

 

**Iwaizumi Hajime:**

see you at 3

 

**Oikawa Tooru:**

(ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THE SEXUAL TENSION BEGINS. 
> 
> Okay but let me just say that I was so overwhelmed by the kind comments everyone left. You're all so sweet and encouraging, thank you so much!!! *hugs you*
> 
> I'm planning to try to update this at least once a month; I have everything outlined and stuff but school is hard :/ Also I'm... really sorry... but now that I've finalized the plot, I had to make some angsty adjustments to the tags... Don't worry though, I swear it will be mostly fluff!!!! (probably)
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! :)
> 
> (([tumblr](http://shimiizuu.tumblr.com/)))


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